


The Chocolate Series

by ayeitsyasi



Series: The Chocolate Series [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Brief Mentions of Depression and Anxiety, Charles Augustus Magnussen - Freeform, Clublock, Drunklock, Irene Adler - Freeform, Jim Moriarty - Freeform, M/M, Mrs. Hudson's death, Mycroft and Lestrade - Freeform, marriedlock, mary morstan - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-26 08:04:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7566481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayeitsyasi/pseuds/ayeitsyasi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First Taste: PGPR</p><p>An introduction to what is called 'The Married Life'. John loves it and Sherlock fears it, but Sherlock tries to overcome the protesting voice in his head solving crimes and gnawing on Mrs. Hudson's sweets. So does Greg. And so does Mycroft.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Chocolate Series

**Author's Note:**

> Bits inspired by lovely works of wordstrings and earlgreytea68!
> 
> If there's anyway for me to sound more British, please help me out with your comments!

There are times like when Sherlock throws himself on the couch and clenches his jaw and thinks about how he wants to send an email to Moriarty.

_Dear Jim..._

John still gives him a mildly glowering look when he does this. It's not even up to Sherlock anymore to think about moving to a desert and study every bit of sand there and probably die from poison shooting scorpions, it's a cure for his boredom.

When he actually shares and discussed his plan with John though, there's a greater chance he will die from John punching or shagging him to death before he has the chance to experience scorpion poisoning.

//

There are times like when Sherlock sits on his chair and stares at his phone for hours and thinks about how much he wants to solve a crime with Irene Adler.

_Dear Irene..._

John still clenches his jaw and grips his cuppa tight until Sherlock notices that his knuckles are as white as his teeth. The thing is, Sherlock never considered himself attracted to Irene in any sort of physical way. He is attracted and amazed by Irene's night black hair and her scalp that covers her brilliant brain. He had spent a total of three hours and a bonus twenty six seconds to explain to John how he admired The Woman's self-confidence and he had received a couple of responses like "Bollocks!" or "Impossible." or "She was naked as a fetus and you're telling me you like her because of her intelligence?" and "Bollocks!" again.

//

There are times like when Sherlock collapses into John's chair and nibbles at the plate of biscuits and wonders if he has to propose to John.

John never knows what Sherlock is thinking when he is sitting on his chair with his curls everywhere, gnawing at the biscuits.

Sherlock never liked the purpose of marriage. That being said, he has never _understood_ why two people that fancy each other a little more than others have to wear baroque costumes and say some words that they will surely tell each other at some point throughout their lives. Friends and family gather around and celebrate and have wine and eat, the only difference weddings had with Christmas was that they didn't have to focus on a certain couple a whole day. Sherlock preferred Christmas. Maybe he will propose to John one Christmas and invite nobody. No one had to know, they might as well think they were just a normal... couple. How is that different from a _married_ couple who can break up like the normal sort, with just a little paper work.

Of course, it was a good excuse to jump out of the boredom zone for a bit and watch everybody hop around, preparing for the Big Day. John would be happy too. Like that time when he made Sherlock come along with him to a pub and have a couple of drinks and the worst part, do karaoke. Sherlock could see John's eyes smile with ' _happy'_ written all over them as the clueless sod that was himself tried to figure out the rhythm and the lyrics on the song that having known the instruments, sounded pretty cheesy and ear splitting to Sherlock.

_"How did I look while being tortured?"_

_"Contemplated."_

John had said, leaning in and giggling while kissing Sherlock, if that's even possible.

//

There are times like when Sherlock smokes a cigarette and wastes money on new colognes, but his face falls when he sees John frowning at him in bed, obviously having found out that he was off nicotine patches again.

The first time it happened, Sherlock made John tea the next morning and promised to take out the old Clark Brian's teeth out of the fridge.

The second time, Sherlock stayed home for two full days and had sex with John on the couch, his own bed, and the kitchen table, twice.

The third time, he threw out all his colognes except one, and wore t-shirts under his coat to show John his patches whenever he asked him to.

The fourth time it happened, Sherlock apologized and John's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"Christmas has come early." John said with his hands behind his back.

"It is so very irresponsible of me to smoke even after apologizing each time—"

"What each time? This is the first time I'm hearing you say those words Sherlock, you've never apologized to me or any one in that matter before."

"Well, I did with my actions, I—"

"I didn't really expect you to stop doing it after those times but now, well that was a proper apology coming out of you so I do actually expect you to stop."

Sherlock collapses into John's chair and starts nibbling at the biscuits again. God it would be a really great cure for his boredom to marry John, wouldn't it?

//

There are times like when Sherlock stares out the window for way longer than is it possible for John to bear, so he messages Lestrade and decides not to let go of him before he has a case.

 _Haven't heard of your desperation_  
for needing my help for a while.  
SH

His phone buzzes within minutes and he concludes that Lestarde isn't on a case.

 _Thought you've fled West from us._  
You're normally always there when  
something happens.

_Had lots of abnormalities lately?  
SH_

_Just a couple._  
David Chai ran over his two children  
with a cab he had stolen.  
Victoria McCarthy blinded her ex husband  
with poison ivy.

Sherlock tapped the Call button and grabbed his coat.

"Hello?"

"Read about David Chai in the papers. Mentally sick, wasn't he?"

"I'm fine, thanks lots for asking." Lestrade paused for an expected laughter, or sigh, he heard neither. "He was, actually. But not that sick. When we found him he was surrounded by twenty eight bottles of beer and vodka, but his tests show that he isn't an alcoholic."

"He wouldn't murder his children if he was sober, though."

"Yes. Sherlock—"

"Send me his address, I'm going to have a chat with him."

"No you're not." John said, catching Sherlock right when he opened the door.

He was holding a bottle of white wine in his hands, Jacob's Creek was identifiable to Sherlock from any distance. He didn't necessarily know why he had that brand of wine memorized.

"Australian?"

"What's wrong with that?" John frowned.

Sherlock shrugged. He didn't need to tell John that Mycroft had once sent him to Fraser Island to neutralize a bomb placed inside a sand figure of Tony Abbot, and he also didn't need to inform John of how much drinking and alcohol he had to go through to gain the trust of the bomber and be his _mate_. Very thrilling.

"Just a bit keen for my system."

"Well, keen or compatible, you're having a glass tonight."

"I've heard good things about Australian wine, Sherlock." Lestrade said from other side of the line.

"Oh, for God's sake. Looks like I have to spend the afternoon inside, tell me about David Chai later."  
Then he hung up the phone and left the door half open.

"Are we to celebrate your blog's readers that have moved from 1895 to 1896?"

"No, we are going to try and have a decent dinner, but thanks for letting me know you stalk my blog."

"I don't stalk your blog! It's always on the screen when you leave your laptop open."

"Prying isn't a good sign. Have you been smoking again?"

Sherlock ignored John's question and walked over to him, trying to look interested in the expensive bottle of wine that reminded him of explosion and sand.

"Dinner, you said? I hope it's not a fancy one. The restaurants put thin pieces of meat in your plate with tiny vegetables on the side and only drops of wine in your glass to look posh and then you have to pay heavily to confirm and presumably thank their stupidity. Isn't it aggravating?"

They had wine and biscuits for dinner because there was a fire at York Bridge and not enough time for John to buy fish & chips, or explain to Sherlock that by 'a decent dinner' he meant just the two of them spending quality time together.

//

There are times like when Sherlock composes a song and Mrs. Hudson says it's lovely and John says it's sad and Mycroft ignores it. Like an orange leaf that falls on the ground in the middle of spring.

"You have always loved the violin."

"Helps me think."

"No, Sherlock. Nothing helps you think. You just need to be awake for it."

"Why is my smoking a problem then? I can confirm I'm deliberately awake when I'm having a smoke."

"John doesn't like it."

"You know Mycroft, I sometimes wonder what would our conversations be like if John was never in my life. I assume you would run out of answers and be quite unreasonable every time we talk about an issue of mine."

Mycroft pursed his lips together. "I would much rather talk about your issues, knowing he is in your life."

"Yes, of course. It's always easier to consider one scenario."

" _Please_ boys!" John threw his hands in the air. Sometimes he wasn't sure if they could see him sitting in the same room as them.

"Mycroft you've been here for almost fifteen minutes and I don't even know why you're here."

Sherlock stared at Mycroft for another half a second and then turned to continue his composing. Mycroft rolled his eyes which wasn't really _rolling_ , since he just looked up at the ceiling and sighed. John wanted to know if _the_ British Government could actually roll his eyes.

"Charles Augustus Magnussen." Mycroft announced, standing up and pacing around the flat slowly. "Sound familiar?"

Sherlock stopped at an angry note.

"Yes, I blew his brains out."

"Very good, Sherlock. Anyway, after cleaning out Appledore, we found a single file in that whole mansion that has the full information about a "friend" of Magnussen named Mary Morstan. We've found her and she seems to be living a normal life without doing any suspicious activities, but," He turned to look at Sherlock who was playing more softly, showing a sign of interest. "I presume it is more compelling to find out what this woman is doing and how she is doing it."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and put his violin down after playing a set of angry B's.

"John, fancy some tea?"

John remembered seeing Sherlock at five in the morning when he was trying to make lye from samples of volcanic ash. Apparently he was unsuccessful and since he had used the kettle to try the lye on, he had created a rather thick and fetid layer of a greenish substance at the bottom of it. John kept back from gagging.

"I think I'll pass."

Mycroft who didn't seem too happy with the fact that he had just given them the news of a possible criminal mastermind living under their nose and being ignored, sighed and tried again.

"Sherlock, Magnussen was so very close to killing you and—"

"And cooking me alive." John mumbled under his breath, grabbing a paper off the table and trying to ignore Sherlock who was boiling water in that mess of a kettle.

"Pardon?" Mycroft's expression didn't look a bit apologetic.

"Oh, nothing. Just since Sherlock didn't ask, would you mind some tea?"

"Hah! With that thick layer of poisonous lye? I think I'm fine."

John didn't waste any energy on thinking how Mycroft knew about the lye, he needed his energy to bear Sherlock and Mycroft's being, in the same room.

Sherlock threw a teaspoon on the table and stood in front of Mycroft with his hands on his hips.

"Will you bugger off if I ask for the file?" Sherlock snapped.

"About time. But why such harsh language, dear brother?"

Then he handed Sherlock a yellow binder off the couch and John swore he could see triumph on Mycroft Holmes' face.

Sherlock snatched the file out of Mycroft's hand and started turning the pages over quickly. He stopped at a page and John could see his eyes narrowing suspiciously at something.

Sherlock read:

"Has history with Jim Moriarty."

//

There are times like when Sherlock and John come home from solving a case, cracking a code, neutralizing a bomb or arresting a burglar, and they both feel too exhausted to do anything.

But still, some nights are different and they shag.

Sometimes John wears a shirt which makes Sherlock want to take it off as soon as possible because he likes to see John in a jumper. Always, in a jumper.

Sometimes Sherlock forgets to sit on his chair and busy himself with his laptop and just like placing the last piece of the puzzle, John pushes him to his room and tastes his mouth that has been used for talking and showing off the whole day. Sherlock tastes like snow and intellect and a small hint of Mrs. Hudson's biscuits.

Sometimes Sherlock is bored.

Sometimes John wears a pair of light brown glasses that match his jumper and drinks tea while mumbling things at the telly and Sherlock thinks about tasting his eyelashes while he's asleep which he always forgets to do, because he immediately sleeps seconds after a shag.

Sometimes Sherlock starts shooting the wall and Mrs. Hudson comes up and throws biscuit crumbs at him and asks them to have sex instead of ruining her property and no one disagrees.

So yes, it's never just for passing the time or having sexual transaction like a normal couple. It's always for a reason. It's nice. Especially when Sherlock can hear the local news from Mrs. Hudson's radio downstairs, while hearing John come at the same time.

John though, never hears anything but Sherlock during sex. He has never told Sherlock that before, because why would he? They are not at that part of their relationship where they tell each other how they feel about fucking each other, even though funnily both of them had slipped a couple "Jesus, I can get used to this"s and "Oh my god, I think I'm falling in love"s which might sound pretty big, but they never talk about it after sex. Not when Sherlock falls into a deep sleep and John silently traces out his own name on Sherlock's forearm.

//

There are times like when Sherlock asks Lestrade to find him a case and he gets bored in the middle of it so instead, he disappears for two whole days and doesn't reply to texts or calls.

This time though, he goes after talking to David Chai.

David Chai is hospitalized in a psychiatric hospital and also under arrest which makes him go even madder because there are two policemen in front of his room who look like guardsmen. They don't look like they eat or sleep or blink and it seems like they're glued to their uniforms and the ground. There just needs to be a tourist taking a selfie to finish the picture.

When Sherlock steps into David's room, it is as if the lights are dim, but that's just because his room doesn't have any windows, since it has to also be a cell. Sherlock sort of feels bad for him and he knows he shouldn't tell anyone that, especially John. He could already hear the unsaid conversation in his head.

_"This man has murdered his children, Sherlock. Of course he is mad and deserves such a room."_

_"It's just idiotic to put a man where he will go insane and give him treatment to get better at the same time. It's like irrigating a desert, it won't work."_

_"I can't believe I'm shagging Sherlock Holmes who's mad as a hatter."_

_"It is my pleasure."_

Fighting could be another reason for them to have exhausted sex, Sherlock realized.

He took a seat in front of David who he was already starting to like, because David didn't greet him like any other boring person would do.

***

"He wasn't drunk when he killed his children."

"What?" Lestrade's voice was either raspy from sleep, or screaming at the telly while watching football.

"David Chai, he didn't drink all that alcohol when he ran over his kids with a taxi. The alcohol in his system was entered afterwards."

"But the blood test—"

"Yes, it won't show you when the alcohol got in his system. He admitted it, he talked about his wife and said that she wouldn't let him drink alcohol before noon which didn't bother him because he "used to do all that in his younger years anyway.""

"Well, these are news."

"Yes. So now we know that he took action while sober not intoxicated. The man has a serious problem, simple treatments are no help for him."

"I'll email the hospital."

"Inform me as soon as possible."

Sherlock hung up his phone and opened the door to the flat. There was John wearing his glasses and a caramel jumper, drinking tea and watching telly closely. It looked too good to be a setup, but John never watched telly on Tuesdays, and today was a Tuesday.

Sherlock took off his coat and promised himself to taste John's eyelashes tonight.

//

There are times like when Sherlock is too focused on a case and is very dialectical and Molly's heels clattering on the floor are no help.

They're not even proper heels though, they look more like oxfords or cone heels. In between figuring out what kind Molly's shoes are, Sherlock concludes that he has way too much dispensable information in his mind about shoes that needed to be deleted.

"How are you even allowed to wear those at work?"

It takes Molly three whole seconds to glance at herself from head to toe and then ask "What?"

"Your shoes. Isn't there a possibility of you stumbling while carrying a tube of a poisonous mixture or I don't know, a brain?"

"Well, I like them." She shifted to her side. "And I can manage to balance. I'm not going to burn this place down with my shoes."

"Wouldn't that be an event." Sherlock mumbles while taking his hands out of his curls and throwing a glance at Molly's shoes.

They were dark blue. Molly's trousers were black and her jumper was red. She wasn't wearing any nail polish but she had makeup on; a crimson shaded lipstick, pitch black mascara, foundation, and a pink shaded blush. Crepe? Rose? Taffy?

Sherlock was tired, which was probably because he had been awake all night, trying to name the color of John's skin and reading Mary Morstan's file. John had turned eighteen times in his sleep and made a small chuffing sound on every exhale, and Mary Morstan had blew up two buildings in Dubai and did business with both Magnussen and Moriarty.

So yes, Sherlock was a bit drowsy and upset because he couldn't remember what type of shoes Molly was wearing. And he also couldn't figure out how bleach found its way to a client's lungs who was on a hunger strike.

"Why are you staring at my shoes?" Said Molly, meeting Sherlock's eyes with a wave of confusion floating in her voice.

"Oh, was I?"

He didn't wait for an answer, instead decided to study the hydrogen peroxide in the bleach later and got up to get his coat.

"Kitten heels."

"What?" Sherlock stopped at the door, looking at Molly who was turning the lights off.

"You were mumbling about them, I figured you needed to know. They're called kitten heels."

"Oh," Sherlock really needed to sleep. "Yes, kitten heels. I presumed so."

That night Sherlock got home to John reading a book about the atmosphere? The atmospheric pressure? It was a blurred image in his mind the next morning when he felt fingers tracing O-H-N on his forearms.

//

There are times like when Sherlock sees something that he severely didn't expect to see in the near future, like when he decides to discuss Mary Morstan with Mycroft and is greeted by Lestarde in a robe, talking in a raspy voice.

"Oh my god." Says Lestrade with a surprised look on his face that Sherlock only gets to see when he's observing a bloody murder, meaning Sherlock is quiet used to that face by now.

"Not quite." Sherlock clears his throat. "I assume Mycroft's home despite all the..." He spun his pointed finger at the silk blue robe that Lestrade had wrapped around himself.

"Yes. Yes, he is. I— uh, I better get going now." He went inside to pick up his coat and the rest of his clothes, expectedly.

"We can talk about David Chai later and, there is uh, another case I told you about, with the whole-- the poison ivy—"

"You don't need to make conversation, you know."

"Yes, yes, alright."

Sherlock went inside and left an awkward Lestrade behind him. His nose was immediately filled with a smell of some sort which he was familiar to, vaguely since he had met John.

He winced at one thousand thoughts and images flooding his mind. Mycroft approached him from the hallway on his right, where the smell was profoundly more.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft called, fully dressed minus his coat that he was holding.

"I'm afraid I can't help you tonight, if it's about Morstan."

"It is. I'd say it's unfortunate that you can't help but with this, smell," he shook his head. "I think I got lucky."

"Oh come on, Sherlock." Said Mycroft, rolling up his sleeves. "You knew."

"Surprisingly, not this time."

He wanted to sit down, but a look at the couch and he changed his mind.

"Well I'm happy you have something to talk about with John now, other than a variation of cases."

"I'm happy Lestrade has something to talk about now other than that one time he stopped a bank robbery in Vermont while single handed."

"I never liked your sense of humor."

"That wasn't a joke." Said Sherlock, emphasizing the 'K'.

"Very well then, dear brother. I think it's time you take off."

"Oh, I thought it was, the second my nostrils were attacked with this _imposing_ smell." He didn't wait to see Mycroft's lips push up into a torturing smile and moved towards the door.

"I don't pay him, just so you know."

"Good. Use your money to buy an air freshener, it helps." A pause. "for the designing."

And _swoosh_ , the detective was out of the British Government's resident.

//

There are times like when Sherlock dreams about worms splitting in half and skulls teething and his heart being ripped out of his chest. At times like that, Sherlock disappears.

John is worried. John is always so worried when Sherlock doesn't answer to his texts or calls or screams. Mrs. Hudson understands and she never wastes biscuit crumbs to calm John down. She makes him tea and does a little talking that either is like morphine, or like someone's stabbing John's heart and brain and eyes at the same time.

John still goes after him in places he had found the detective before, very accidentally. In a bus stop where he had found Sherlock reading old dated papers and having a smoke. In a cafe where he had been writing with a green pen. In his own closet where he was just quietly sleeping and purring like a little cat.

Occasionally, Sherlock shows up after three days with an unshaven face and an unfamiliar odour that makes John feel too apprehensive, and so he drinks two full cups of black coffee and throws back three Excedrin pills which only make him throw up a bit, so it's fine. As long as he sees Sherlock lost in the sheets on their bed, he's fine.

Mycroft never helps. There is a little spot in John's brain which makes an alarming sound and he hears "Punch me in the face!" whenever Mycroft talks about not knowing where his brother is or not being sure about his state of health which John calls bullshit on, and there is a little spot in the spoiled side of his heart that sends signals to his brain and he thinks about how loyal Mycroft is being towards Sherlock. John tries to hide both thoughts and accept when Mycroft claims that "Sherlock is fine." and "He'll be back in a few days." and that "He's just busy with a case."

This time though, John finds Sherlock in 221C, colorless and blank and cloudy, so he takes him upstairs and sits him on his chair and goes to run the water for a hot bath.

He takes a lumping Sherlock who had eaten two full biscuits properly in John's surprise and undresses him slowly, then he does the same himself and gets in the tub with his friend. John sleeps to frozen hands embracing his thighs and wakes up to cold water and wet curls and a hint of pain in his neck.

Sherlock makes tea in the morning and they don't talk about it. When Sherlock goes out for a walk, John watches him from the window and wonders when will be the next time he gets to see Sherlock properly eat or make his heart claw away out of his skin and bones.

//

There are times like when Sherlock dreams about worms splitting in half and skulls teething and his heart being ripped out of his chest. At times like that, Sherlock disappears.

While going downstairs and opening the door to 221C, he wonders if he has to strike a different pose to think about purposing to John.

On Friday, he gets twenty eight texts from John, three from Lestrade, one from Mycroft, and one from his phone operator.

On Sunday, he gets twenty one texts from John, and one notification that says John's blog has been updated.

On Saturday, he gets one text from John that says "I think I'm falling in love with your idiocy, but do come back and get me out of this madness, please." And that makes him cry.

He cries until his mouth is too tired of the sourness and his eyes are too blurred to see anything straight.

On Monday, he feels hungry and gets one text from John that says "I am now truly mad." and he smiles and sees a figure approaching him and touching his face and picking him up and when he wakes up, he is in cold water, leaning against a warm body.

He feels like vomiting and remembers the last three days in an instant. He figures he doesn't need to tell John that this time he was the reason of his disappearance and it made him happy that John was mad, so he makes John tea and doesn't talk, instead goes out for some fresh air and thinks about how he wants to express that he is utterly mad himself too.

//

There are times like when Sherlock sees no problem with leaning back on the couch and having John sit in his lap and have a make out session until they both ridicule each other and grasp the atmosphere around them.

Today is a complicated version of it. Sherlock shoots the wall and reads about Mary Morstan and kicks a chair and burns his finger and texts Mycroft who doesn't answer immediately like he always does, so Sherlock tells John about him and Leatrade.

John chokes on his tea a bit and and turns off the telly and takes his glasses off which makes Sherlock's mouth go bitter. He sits straight up with his mouth slightly open and after a minute he says

"What?"

"An affair. Mycroft and Gabe."

"Greg."

"Greg. Yes." Sherlock corrects himself quickly.

"Oh my god." John leans back against his chair and rubs his eyes with his knuckles.

"Oh my god."

"Is it that shocking?"

"Are you out of your mind? Yes, it is very _very shocking_. It's like a burlesque of a relationship between two very unlike characters of a movie."

"I don't understand. It's just an affair."

"It's _Mycroft Holmes._ My god," he clears his throat. "Right. You two brothers are phenomenons and _not_ in a cherishing way."

He stands up and looks out the window. He isn't looking though, he is thinking.

"My god," he repeats. "I can die now. I know Mycroft Holmes is capable of shagging people. I've seen it all, I am very ready to be taken out of this world."

"What'd you mean 'he is capable of shagging people'? Everyone is, _I_ was."

"Yeah, but you're different."

"If you mean I'm the intelligent one, I can perpetually agree with you."

John says nothing. Sherlock can tell by the way his fingers are intertwined that he is still in thought, or disbelief as it might be more appropriate to say.

John marches back to his chair and takes a sip from his tea.

"You know," a very unexpected softness is in his voice gets Sherlock's attention. "I was almost as shocked the first time that we... You know."

Sherlock does know, but he decides to put a questioning look on his face, just to get John to talk.

John sighs and rolls his eyes the way he does when he knows he's being teased.

"The first time that I realized I might go mad," another sip. "For you."

Sherlock swallows because it's never happened before, sitting in front of John and having him talk about themselves.

He can see those little white things that he presumes are dandelion fluffs from the dead ones or dust particles float through the little rays of sunshine that comes from their window and makes their couch look like its almost glistening.

"And I was right."

Sherlock looks up at John and his eyes look like they're glistening too.

Interesting.

Sherlock can't tell if the matter about Mycroft and Lestrade is old news now and he can go back to being reluctant about sharing and discussing his feelings for John.

John doesn't even look like he's waiting for Sherlock to say something back, he's just sitting and drinking his tea. He looks soft and expensive and enlightened, like a delicate little thing who is nice to have dinner with, or sit inches away from and think about proposing to.

Sherlock wants to be resourceful and find a response to what John had just said, like the time he met Irene Adler who was pale and fascinating and he was struggling to find words to speak. He thinks about saying "I love you" but that would be very unoriginal and only a splinter of what he felt and thought and loved about John, no one tells a dying flower "You'll be fine" and insists to bring the ocean to it. That would be a fail and since Sherlock Holmes never fails, except that one time with that Ukrainian drug dealer who overdosed and died before he could leave fine clues for the world to solve his case, his brilliant brain starts thinking about ways to tell John that he is like the alphabet to a human to him.

Sherlock gets up and offers his hand to a John who's almost done with his tea and holds his hand carefully. He sits both of them on the couch and tells John to sit on his lap and smiles when John laughs and shuts up when he is witnessing the fascinating way they fit together, for the third time in this month.

"You look sleepy."

"I feel cozy."

"I need to tell you something."

"Do tell me something, then."

"I sometimes think about proposing to you."

"Imagining you on one knee, makes me want to swallow matches and drink gasoline."

"Why?"

"Because I'm mad." John whispers.

"Is that your way of saying 'I love you'?"

"Do you want it to be?"

"No. It's too common and pathetic."

"I thought you thought about marriage that way."

"I do."

"Then don't propose to me."

"What if I get lost and there is no you to help?"

"Bollocks! I'm always there, you know."

Sherlock takes a moment to think about all the times he was alone without his brown eyed friend and he concludes that at all of those times he was the reason there was no John.

"What if I run away?"

"Then I'll find you and make you swallow matches and gasoline."

And then John's warm mouth is planted on Sherlock's. He tastes like tea with a hint of milk and two teaspoons of sugar. He tastes like a drop of vanilla, or rain, or bleach. He is either too sweet or too beautiful or too poisonous for Sherlock.

There are hands embracing different parts of skin and noses bumping to each other when they both pull away for a bit of air and there are John's eyelashes tickling the sensitive spot on Sherlock's cheeks. It's brilliant. Sherlock's out of control and so is John, like fate, like destiny.

There are arms willing to cradle and skin burning to be kissed, but it's fulfilling and enough for a four in the afternoon make out session so their tongues slowly back off and their deep kisses begin to become slow and gentle pecks so they can hold each other firm and tight, John breathing quietly against Sherlock's neck and Sherlock rubbing in circles on the small curve of John's back.

Sherlock lives two very different lives. One in a lab with the AC on and drowned in chemicals and watch glasses and Erlenmeyer flasks and Molly, and one at a flat he shares with John, swimming in his caramel scented sheets and jumpers and cups of tea and Mrs. Hudson's biscuits and sex.

He can't and won't decide which life style he prefers to chose and continue living for rest of his life, because that would be like one of those stupid and meaningless questions about liking which parent more that different people ask little children. He knows he can't live without neither, without blood rushing through his veins as he is seconds away from cracking a code, and without blood rushing through his veins when John plants small kisses on his temples and fucks him the way Sherlock decides that he can easily trade solving a case with Moriarty for John's remarkable powers in thrusting.

John makes a little humming sound and picks up his body from Sherlock's lap and glides in the shower.

***

When John gets out of the shower with a towel wrapped his waist, a little sticky note grabs his attention. It's says

_"Dear John,_

_We've got matches in the cabinet, I suggest you start thinking about buying gasoline."_

//

There are times like when Sherlock gets made fun of by Anderson or Donovan and John fists his hands and Sherlock _tries_ to calm him down.

He tries shagging.

It doesn't work since they finish at half past eight which counts as afternoon for both of them, so after John takes a shower and Sherlock reviews some of their cases which have the most reviews on John's blog, John gets out of the shower and starts talking about how Anderson looks like a caveman and how if he was to chose between being shot with an RPG and shagging Donovan, he would chose the rocket-propelled grenade.

So he tries taking John out on a real date.

That doesn't work either, since John says he's not hungry and goes on about suing Anderson and it rains and John's blonde hair changes its color to dirty brown and everything just goes so wrong.

So he buys a new kettle, which works.

John calls Mrs. Hudson to tea and half-eaten biscuits and Sherlock hides his surprise in violin pieces. This is exceptionally the first time something other than sex has made John forget about a matter.

Throughout the next week, Sherlock intentionally does three unsuccessful experiments on different objects at their house and stops worrying about John getting mad at his co-workers' shit talking and starts wondering if John was a housewife in his last life.

//

There are times like when Sherlock decides to actually comb his hair and read a proper book for fun and drink proper tea sweetened with sugar and have normal sex with John and buy actual new clothes, but Mycroft drops by and ruins everything.

"Good morning, John."

"Mycroft! I never heard you knock."

"I am well, thank you for asking."

John doesn't want to be surprised every time Mycroft drops a bold comment, but it's out of his control now after being attacked by it from time to time.

"Good morning, Sherlock."

"Mycroft!" Sherlock drops the paper he was reading and puts on a very noticeable fake smile.

"I have missed you. Sorry for interrupting your business with my sudden urge to meet with you last time. How is the business, by the way? Is it worth being involved in?"

Mycroft's face screams "I am two seconds away from punching you in the nuts." but his mouth manages to make out:

"How nice of you to remember, I should have congratulated you for being successful in your business. I understand that paper works are indispensable."

"Right. I have to get some air."

John grabs his coat and leaves the door open and the whole way down the stairs, he tries not to be upset about how he had dropped his book without marking the page, just to make his exit look more dramatic and effective.

Sherlock gives his best glare to Mycroft who has managed to put on an innocent face without Sherlock noticing him trying.

"Why is the wife upset?"

"Because I haven't done what you should do yet!" Sherlock jumps out of his chair and starts rubbing his forehead, pacing around the flat with obvious nervousness.

"And what is that?"

"I don't know! Getting a ring! Going on a proper date before the marriage!"

"Dear Lord, Sherlock! That is all extra and meaningless, we both know that. It's all formalities and hocus pocus to drive the people mad and make them feel better about what they're doing!"

"I know that!" Sherlock snapped.

"Good, then. Consider yourself a married man and have a merry Christmas."

"It's not all that, though. It's the honeymoon, the guests, those boring and unfamiliar people who call you and wish you a great life together. They all hunt me. They _pursue_ me, Mycroft."

"Would it calm you down if I told you that John won't make you deal with all these formalities?"

"Will I be calm if you tell me a lie? No."

"Aw, Sherlock," Mycroft moves for the first time since he has arrived. "John is a wise man—"

"I'm aware."

"—and he won't like for you to drive yourself to insanity for a worthless matter like marriage. I will hurl something at you if you disagree with me now, know that." He cleared his throat like he had just talked about the local news, not physically attacking his brother.

"Anyway, I imagine you wanted to talk to me about Morstan."

"She's boring."

"What?"

"Boring. Boredom. Bore. It reeks in her file of the smell of exaggeration and false detailing."

"Sherlock, she is a proper criminal mastermind. Like Jim Moriarty. You _live_ for these cases, did you forget?"

"I don't live for a bomber who has blonde hair and has an Australian passport."

"She blew up two information centers just for killing a policeman and you are telling me that she is only a _bomber_?"

"With an Australian passport."

"Sherlock!"

"Stop it, Mycroft. You have found her file in Magnussen's Appledore, a person who bored me after five minutes of meeting him. I'm not wasting impeccable theories on how to stop her. You have London in your pocket, why is it too hard for you to stop a _bomber_?"

"She is _not a bomber_ , Sherlock."

"Yes she is."

"You are ridiculous."

"At least I don't secretly shag inspectors."

"Oh my god!"

Mycroft stands up and and storms out in the blink of an eye and right after him, Mrs. Hudson runs up like a dying bee.

"What is the matter with you two?"

Instead of an answer, Sherlock runs to the kitchen and grabs something from the cabinet, then rolls up his sleeves and yanks out his nicotine patches, takes his coat and runs out.

***

When John comes home, all the lights are off and there are three nicotine patches on the floor, no Sherlock and no lighters in the cabinet above the sink.

//

There are times like when Sherlock's boredom becomes very aggravating and uncontrollable, like when he cuts out John's head from a photo and glues it to a copy of Leonardo Da Vinci's Vitruvian Man and _giggles_ while showing it to John with a strange complacent expression on his face.

"What is this supposed to mean?"

"It's Da Vinci's Vitruvian Man, with a little editing."

"My head?"

"Yes."

"Right. Why do you look like you're about to explode this flat with laughter?"

And that's when Sherlock starts laughing so hard, he has to hold on to the wall and sniffle a couple of times and accept a tissue John offers him to wipe his tears.

"I still don't understand." John's smile screams lost.

"Well, I thought it'd be romantic," Sherlock glides behind John's chair and places his hands on John's shoulders.

"Since Vitruvian Man is also known as the 'Ideal Man'."

He tries to say those words in a sexy tone, he tries, but he knows he isn't successful when John chokes on his tea and stands up.

"Oh my god! Right. We need to take a short break from London."

"What?"

"Yes, Sherlock. We need a holiday. Start packing, I'll check for tickets."

"John, I don't follow."

"You just tried to _seduce_ me with gluing my face on the Vitruvian Man _whilst_ rubbing my shoulders. I would be less uncomfortable if you had done an impression of Hello Kitty. We are taking a break from London and boredom and we're going to have loads of sex and you have to wear other clothes."

John wasn't pissed, he was just confusingly aroused and having a bad day.

"Oh, for God's sake! To where, then?"

"To somewhere that you don't know the language of." John said while scrambling to his room.

***

"Belarus?"

"It's better than the time Mycroft flew me to Finland and told me I wasn't going out of London."

"At least he drugged you so you didn't have to spend hours in panic."

"I could've died, Sherlock! Do you even _know_ the side effects of Lunesta?"

"It wasn't that bad."

"I am literally banned from Finland! Thanks for reassuring me that you need this short vacation."

"We're not on a vacation. It's practice for honeymoon."

"For that, we can just have sex in every part of the flat and drink mojitos until we vomit."

"Isn't that what people do on a daily basis in Hawaii?"

"It certainly is."

//

There are times like when Sherlock drinks proper alcohol and talks to the bartender and wears something other than a coat.

John has a love-hate relationship with those days.

He loves them because he can kiss Sherlock more and get drunk without worrying about the fact that Sherlock will fly and land on a case of murder that will make him mad as a hatter for weeks.

He hates them because Sherlock tends to be ominously flirty and gay. That is of course a very good thing to get him going when they shag, but it's a bit vexatious since Sherlock is very attractive and social when he's drunk, so he flirts with everyone who lands an eye on him.

John knows he doesn't have to be jealous or upset because that would clearly be childish, but he can't help wincing at the image of his glassy-eyed boyfriend embracing a man who is distinctly a bodybuilder, so he takes four shots of raw vodka in a row and and walks over to Sherlock.

"John!" Sherlock grins when he sees John coming over to him, looking doubtlessly intoxicated.

The bodybuilder looks behind him and takes a step back, his hand still ghosting over Sherlock's.

"Oh, hey you!"

A Sherlock with rolled up sleeves and a button downed shirt smiles wider and he whispers something at the huge guy who is still holding his hand and the guy nods in response and slowly walks away.

"He was alright. Why'd you let him go?"

"He was too plain."

"Am I plain?"

John spins in a little circle and bows in response when Sherlock claps for him. Alcohol always makes Sherlock an other person and fills John with more of himself. It's great, because first when their plane landed in Belarus, John had thought to start slowly and carefully and make Sherlock have a glass of wine before bed. Sherlock had ordered room service and whiskey that night and had suggested to go and visit Svitanok Beach. They were very ahead of John's schedule and John had decided to believe in miracles.

"You're kind."

John smiles.

"And you're like the only delicious and worth eating meal in a fancy restaurant." Sherlock mumbles.

John leans closer to Sherlock. The music in the back is booming and mildly deafening and it seems like Sherlock's curls are swinging and jumping around with the rhythm. Sherlock giggles, face an inch away from John's.

"A meal?"

"Mhm."

"Then bon appetite!"

John kisses Sherlock and it seems like their tongues are imitating the music rhythm now.

//

There are times like when Sherlock is in a hurry to do something that he says is "Peculiarly urgent." and makes John follow him blindly without informing him of _shit_.

So John puts on his trousers and a jumper and a coat and skips breakfast to accompany Sherlock for a matter, although they are officially still on holiday.

"What's the matter?"

"A possible criminal mastermind with blonde hair."

"What?"

"Marry Morstan. She is in Belarus and has a plan to blow up one of the most important Belarusian banks. I have to talk with her."

"Oh, so you are just going to have a chat with a bomber whom you brazenly hate, as I recall. Is that why you made me skip my rye bread and tea?"

"She isn't a bomber. I've reviewed her file, she has an Australian passport which lets her commute to Sydney every five months. She used to deal drugs with the most famous Australian drug dealers but now she's captured Magnussen's power _and_ his people. She doesn't meet the people who work for her directly, so she can walk in the day light easily and without being suspicious or doubted upon," Sherlock explained, "If she blows up the bank, she will have Belarus in her pocket. Now, is that a good reason to miss your rye bread and tea?"

"My god. I'm convinced." John said, dismissively.

And so after Sherlock puts up his coat's collar a couple of times and John murmurs "Right." and  
they successfully contact Mycroft, they manage to stop the explosion. Marry Morstan escapes but Belarus' Air Force manages to stop three private planes filled with Morstan's people and equipment that could easily be the evidence to Morstan's crimes.

John gets to have his rye bread which he tends to hate and his tea which isn't warm or sweet, and Sherlock expresses his gratitude to John for this holiday, as soon as they go back to London.

//

There are times like when Sherlock only drinks coffee and there are days that he only drinks tea.

He once solved three cases in a coffee day, and burnt down a hospital in a tea day, so John couldn't really tell which day was better than the other.

But when Sherlock drinks tea one morning and Mrs. Hudson passes away in the afternoon, John is bloody damn sure that tea days are the worst, so he throws away every single teabag they own while having a mild breakdown.

It is not of universe's condescendence to take away your loved ones and Sherlock knows that, but he can't help control a fist full of tears that roll down his cheeks when John locks their arms together and tries to comfort him while they stand before Mrs. Hudson's grave.

"I can't believe it."

"Neither can I." Sherlock sniffled.

"Martha Louise Hudson." John read the name on her grave. "God, I can't call her anything but 'Mrs. Hudson'. It's sort of inscrutable."

"It's plausible. Partly because I didn't know her full name."

"Yes you did!"

"No, no. Not really, when I rented the flat she only blabbed about the fact that she'll only be my landlady not my housekeeper and that her husband was an addict. I never got a chance to glance at the contract or ask her full name."

"Maybe use another word instead of 'blabbed'."

"Gabbled?"

"Nope."

"Prattled?"

"Worst."

"Jabbered?"

John gave up, instead he tried to check Sherlock's breathing every five seconds.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

An exhale that sounder more like a sigh.

Inhale.

Exhale.

"Let's go home." Sherlock offered.

And so they said their farewells to Mrs. Hudson's grave with a couple of flowers left on it from the funeral that John didn't tell Sherlock about because Sherlock and a group of people wasn't a good mix. Obviously Sherlock found out but not because of how dry the rose petals on her grave were, simply because Lestrade texted him three times, in the first one he was saying how sorry he was because of Mrs. Hudson, in the second one he called Sherlock a prick for not attending the funeral, and the third one was him apologizing because of the previous text.

As Sherlock and John walked under the street lights and the afternoon sky, John realized this was the first time they've ever hold hands in public, and a melancholically sad feeling loomed over him as he thought about the lovely woman's body under the ground.

As Sherlock and John walked under the street lights and the afternoon sky, Sherlock realized that there would be no more morning-breathed Mrs. Hudson bringing them biscuits and tea, and that he has no other choice to marry John.

//

There are times like when Sherlock overcomes awkwardness so very well, John feels like the luckiest person alive.

Lestrade calls Sherlock for the first time in weeks, voice low and doted with avoidant. Sherlock has never heard Lestrade'a voice so considering, so he rips his eyes off John's bare arse and steps out of the room to keep from waking him up.

"Lestrade!"

"Hullo."

"New case in order?"

"Uh, yeah. Victoria McCarthy."

"Ah! Blinded her husband with poison ivy. Read last week's title that was about her, she isn't immune by the law, is she?"

"Well, she can't be because she suffocated herself with poison ivy three days after the papers wrote about her."

"Why wasn't I informed?"

"Procrastination? Not answering your phone?"

"Procrastination?!" Sherlock scoffed. "Don't make me reconsider your level of IQ."

"Anyways, Sherlock. I thought we needed to talk about my...probable relationship with," a deep breath. "Your brother."

Sherlock slowly paced through the flat. "What about your sexual intercourse with my brother?"

"Ugh— Jesus, I know I shouldn't have mentioned it to you. Bloody hell, I've gone mad."

Sherlock smirked and decided on what to tease Leatrade about from now on, beside the whole IQ level thing and that one day that Lestrade had accidentally snorted coke while attempting to identify a piece of evidence by _smelling_ it.

"I thought the same, actually. But you don't even need to pretend like I witnessed you run out of my brother's house with only a robe on. I suggest you would if you decided to shag anyone's brother in the future though, because apparently that's what normal people do."

"Thanks for the advice, Sherlock," Lestrade breathed. "But now that you know, I'd prefer it be a secret, if there isn't a problem."

"Would you describe it as an amours, then?"

"No, no, bloody _hell_ , Sherlock," Lestrade sounded more stressed than when he arrested a Neapolitan bomber and was startled when he escaped the next day. "Just, don't tell anyone, yet."

"I've already told John."

"Oh for God's sake," Lestrade managed to say in a flat but sullen tone. "Who else knows?"

"No one."

"Sherlock."

"Yes?"

"Who else?" Lestrade's voice seemed to be rising.

"Did you not hear me I said—"

"Molly?" Lestrade interrupted.

Sherlock paused for a moment and then, "That was an accident."

"Oh my god!" His tone made Sherlock sure that if he was present in the flat, he would've punched him constantly for an hour. "Right. Count it as an amours or not, don't spread the news in the town please."

"Will try to, won't promise."

There was a muffled " _Jesus_ " and then Sherlock hung up. It was four in the morning, Sherlock stood fully dressed in the middle of the flat and swore he could hear John purring from the other room.

//

There are times like when Sherlock showers and walks around only in his pants that hug his hips too well and drinks black coffee which to his surprise, it's becoming one of his favorites and throws himself on the couch and John tries to keep back from jumping on him and kissing him everywhere.

"John?"

"Yes?"

Sherlock pats the empty spot on the couch. "Do you mind?"

John marks his book with a little rose petal he had found on the bed next to him this morning. He had also found one in the kettle and on the sink and right when he had thought Sherlock was being semi-romantic, he saw the lady they had called for housecleaning who clumsily stumbled over a cushion when she saw John.

She had said she was planting rose petals everywhere because they made the house capture a pleasant smell. John had shrugged and drank a cup of coffee which he spat out immediately because of the _unpleasant_ rose petal taste.

He sits down next to a chiefly naked Sherlock with damp curls whose skin is practically glowing and he thinks about the last time he saw a person looking like a piece of bloody art.

"What's wrong?" John asks quietly.

Sherlock lets his head fall on John's shoulder while loosening his grip on his cup. He sighs and feels John leaning back slowly and putting his head on top of Sherlock's gently.

"I can see your cock." John whispers while smiling a cheeky smile.

"My attempts to provide you a good view is sending good results, then." Sherlock says in a low voice.

"Precisely."

There is a long moment of silence that isn't uncomfortable for any of the two. John watches the gray steam rise from Sherlock's coffee and Sherlock listens to John's perfectly rhythmic breathing.

"Want to try something?" John manages to say moments after he notices Sherlock's coffee go cold and the steams disappear.

"Mhm." Sherlock mumbles.

John sits them against each other and pushes Sherlock so he can lie on his back. Then, he lifts both Sherlock's legs and puts them over his own shoulders and moves to Sherlock's pants, sliding them down his thighs as far as it goes and looks up at Sherlock who is practically _beaming_.

John starts kissing Sherlock's chest and slowly works his way down while Sherlock who is hard by now, whimpers and moans in a slow, soft, electrical voice. John reaches Sherlock's hipbone and whispers "If anyone walks in, we will go with the calf muscle injury." Before hearing Sherlock giggle and then gasp at John who takes him in wholly in a quick move.

Sherlock's hands unintentionally jerk up to John's hair which is enlightened by the sunlight that's found its way inside from the window and let's out several moans which aren't even that loud, just very soft and John loves it because he is very insistent himself.

He works with his tongue and massages the skin while sucking down on it which Sherlock manages to take a mental note of for later. Sherlock's hands also massage John's scalp slowly and John gives little strokes to Sherlock's cock and sucks on it which makes Sherlock moan 'John' shakily.

When Sherlock climaxes, they both moan at the sensation and John comes in his pants which isn't worst than the time when he had Sherlock sexting him sarcastically all day and he had to walk around trying desperately to hide his boner, so it's fine.

John plants small kisses on Sherlock stomach and groans when he hears feet stepping up to their flat. His groan grows more loud when Sherlock mutters "Mycroft."

//

There are times like when Sherlock doesn't notice a change that has occurred at all. Like when John buys a baby blue jumper and starts buying tea again, or like when he looks out the window and thinks about properly proposing to John, instead of sitting on John's chair and biting at old biscuits.

He tries buying the most alike biscuits to Mrs. Hudson's, but none of the shops have that kind so now he locks his hands behind his back and stares at the London sky and the London people while thinking about John.

One morning when John makes him coffee while in his robe and has a make out session with him until they both run out of breath and sleeps on the couch looking like an expensive humanly statue of an angel and has captivating sex with him at night, Sherlock decides that he needs to buy a ring.

So he does.

He decides to take advice from Molly who wears ballet flats or boat shoes more often now and has stopped putting mascara on. Sherlock takes her out without saying a word and when they pull up at a jewelry shop Molly almost chokes so Sherlock decides to tell her what's happening.

Molly's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "A ring?"

"Yes. For John."

"As a gift?"

"No. As an engagement ring."

"Oh! Right!" She blushes and Sherlock sees the color of her cheeks shine bright under the pink blush she has on.

"Shall we go in then?"

"So you're getting married, then?" Molly continues, ignoring Sherlock's question.

"Yes..."

"Like, with proper proposal and stuff."

"Yes. And the ceremony."

"And the guests."

"And the guests." Sherlock repeats.

"And the honeymoon?"

"Oh, well, we'll just have plenty of sex—"

"Right! I think it's time we go in now."

Molly steps into the shop and Sherlock thanks Gof that her shoes don't clatter anymore.

***

The day after, Sherlock stays home and gets a text from Lestarde.

_Molly told me.  
I'm exalted._

_Mycroft told me._  
I know too much now,  
It's almost crippling.  
SH

Lestarde doesn't reply and Sherlock watches John make tea and type a new blog entry.

//

There are times like when Sherlock does something abrupt and John's eyebrows shoot upward in confusion and John thinks about how much he loves this man.

Once, Sherlock had travelled to a desert and brought back thirteen different types of cacti which all smelled horrible after being carried in a suitcase for weeks and looked insufferably bizarre for John to let Sherlock put them on the kitchen table for an experiment.

Then there was a time when he had kissed John for the first time, in a cab whilst the cabbie was talking about the rain and how they should immigrate to Hawaii.

The biggest of all came when Sherlock had a shower and tumbled into bed next to a half-asleep John.

"John," called Sherlock.

John's eyes were closed. He let out a little hum.

Sherlock snuggled close to John who was sleeping on his back had his lips slightly parted. "'The Ginger Vagrant' isn't a good title for a drug addict who sold his house for heroine," said Sherlock.

John shifted to his side so he was facing Sherlock, but his eyes stayed shut, "You never approve of my titles,"

"I did once about the 'Cannibal Postman'," remarked Sherlock, bitterly.

"That was because Mycroft said he didn't like it, don't pretend like it wasn't," said John, obviously drifting into sleep on the last words.

Sherlock smiled at the exhausted John in front of him who's scar was visible despite the dim light of the nightstand next to their bed. Sherlock planted a kiss over John's scar and heard John sniffle.

"John," called Sherlock, which made John sigh and narrow his finally opened eyes at him.

"Sherlock, you almost burnt the kitchen table trying to do an _experiment_ today, I had to clean it up and then I found four identical fingers in the fridge. I'm exhausted and hungry —because you burnt our takeaways along with biscuits I bought from the shops— and in need of a shower because you spent almost an hour in there for God knows what, so if you have anything to say—"

"Marry me, John." Sherlock interrupted John.

John's mouth was half-open from the long _why-won't-you-let-me-rest_ speech when Sherlock said that, and he closed it the instant his brain started functioning in wake. Did he just propose to me in bed?

"Yes, John," said Sherlock, noticing John's bewildered and questioning expression, "I did propose to you in bed, because I love you and also because I thought purposing to you in the rain would be insufficiently dull and too romantic," a pause, "for us."

And so John was now shocked, happy, starving, and nearly fainting with exhaustion, "You were serious." he said when he finally spoke.

"What?"

"About the whole marriage thing. You were serious."

"Well, yes of course I was. Why'd you mean I—"

Sherlock never got a chance to finish his question because he was interrupted with the crash of his and John's lips and muffled whimpers that came out of him when John practically shoved his tongue down Sherlock's throat.

After the full on snog, John pulled away and they were slightly breathless and Sherlock felt dizzy at how incredible John's lips had felt in front of his own's.

"Does that mean 'yes'?" asked Sherlock, managing to catch his breath back and looking into John's almost closed eyes.

"Yes, yes, yes," said John in a happy tone and kept repeating it for the next twenty minutes of Sherlock giving him a blowjob.

//

There are times like when Sherlock wakes very early in the morning and even though he always complains about how useless sleep is, he feels like the need to give in to the comfortable bed and the warm John against him who looks charming in his sleep.

Sherlock remembers not to tell him that, ever.

John wakes up to an empty bed with a ring on his finger and grins cheekily which makes him feel like a teenager even though it shouldn't, because all he thought about when he was a teen was shagging girls and medical school, not being proposed to while he was lying in his bed, fighting the urge to drift off into sleep and having a gold ring on his ring finger the next morning.

He stayed in bed and listened to Sherlock bumping cups and spoons and beakers together in the kitchen, and stared at the ceiling, not wanting the appease he felt move out of his body.

When his bladder finally got the best of him and Sherlock grew suspiciously quiet, he stepped out of the room and saw the sight of Sherlock sitting on his chair, focusing hard on something on his laptop.

"Hey," said John, quietly, not knowing what else to say to make it not feel like he was still dancing around smugness and love.

"Morning," Sherlock responded, not looking up from his laptop.

John stepped into the kitchen and tried to ignore piles of brown sugar sitting on their table, looking like an unpleasant sight to greet you in the morning. He put the kettle on and felt Sherlock wrapping his arms around his waist and nuzzling his face into John's neck.

"Did you like it?" murmured Sherlock, planting a light kiss on the side of John's neck.

John leaned back and smiled at the feeling of warmth that radiated from Sherlock, and the kettle, but since John is a romantic, he tried to ignore the kettle.

"Very," John responded and turned around so he could kiss Sherlock. John smiled at how quick Sherlock's lips made the attempt to kiss him back.

John pulled back. "Although, I don't see any on your finger,"

Sherlock looked down at his hand and shook his head, "Experiment."

"Sherlock! Did you really use our wedding ring to do an experiment?" John asked, amused.

"Seems like I did. You care too much," said Sherlock.

"I think it's called love." said John, satisfied by the strangled sound Sherlock had made when John pulled him down to a bruising kiss.

//

There are times like when Sherlock gets anxious and thinks.

He thinks about John and how he makes him feel alive, very cliche for Sherlock of course, but he can feel his veins throb and his heart pound and his eyes observe and his brain work in its way to find a right purpose and how his senses come to life and don't differentiate with others' feelings and again does at the same time.

He feels love and he remembers when he lost the feeling when he was eight years old and writing in his journal under a silent tree in the summer when the leaves are so colorful and tempting to be stepped on. He remembered losing the feeling love when he was at that age and when a boy he liked approached him with a couple of his friends and tore his journal in useless and sad pieces that seemed to be only carrying meaningless words and phrases, not proper and strong and alive feelings.

He remembered that he used to try and hold on to the pieces and follow those that were scattered in the wind and he remembered his mouth going bitter and little screws and nuts click wrongly in his head and he didn't know then, but that was when love was solemnly replaced with a blurry and unidentifiable puddle of dirty rain water and he stayed like that for as long as he could remember.

He remembered crying the whole way home and trying to tear the boys' evil laughs and pointing fingers out from his brain.

He remembered staying in his room for months and he remembered anxiety and depression and disguise and screams and therapists and half eaten meals and scratches and bathing fully clothed and back pain and headaches and coldness and nausea and a feeling that made him want to peel the skin off his face.

He remembered sorrow and loss and loud noises and dry throats and sour tears and puffy eyes and swollen lips and boring biology and bullies and terrible odors and fear of making friends and being called a freak and then not giving a fuck.

He thinks about John who came in as a melody and stayed as a song and who healed like a God but was just a doctor.

He thinks about how he wants to drive around the town and listen to John scream like normal people want to listen to the music they love with loud volume.

He thinks about how stupid traditions are and he thinks about believing in miracles and he thinks about 'what if's and he thinks about changing his clothes and he gets anxious when he does because he thinks other people will punish abnormality but then he thinks about how he doesn't know how others define abnormal and then he thinks about going out and interacting with other people and then he gets nauseous and vomits in the sink at two in the morning and John comforts him and Sherlock decides he should never think again because he hates the look of fear in John's eyes when he gags a couple times and his stomach growls and his eyes get wet and then there's a lot of hateful sourness from the hurling and the crying.

Sherlock tries to convince John that he's fine but they both know he isn't so he gets some rest and wakes up to a John with brown bags under his eyes who's finishing a book that Sherlock remembers seeing him start when he was falling sleep the night before.

Then John makes tea and forces Sherlock to swallow a first full of unfamiliar antibiotics and then he throws up again and then there is an ambulance and spinning lights and white and blue and green.

//

There are times like when Sherlock reads every case like the alphabet, fast and easy.

So he solves McCarthy's case in the span of twenty two hours and fifty seven minutes which is two orgasms and six cups of tea and a quick visit to the hospital for the paper work and a call from Mycroft which Sherlock ignores.

John uses the time that Sherlock composes to meet Lestrade in a pub.

"Lestrade!"

"Beer?"

John thinks if people don't really greet anyone these days, "Yes. Beer sounds lovely."

Lestrade turns to order their drinks. Parts of his hair are standing upright and and his face is unshaven.

"Wow," John prefers to start the conversation rather than Lestrade himself explode into words by the look on his face.

"After this long being with Sherlock, I think I'm starting to do a little deduction here. Relationship problems?"

"Relationships?" Lestrade asks tiredly while he picks up their drinks and chugs half of his bottle in one breath.

John tries again. "Shagging-buddies' problems?"

"More likely."

"It's Mycroft, I take it?"

"Yes."

"You need something stronger, then."

"Yes, I need something to buzz me off entirely." agreed Lestarde.

John turned to the bartender and ordered them shots of vodka. Two extras for Lestrade.

"So," started John, "I honestly have a fist full of guesses but I'd rather you tell me what the issue is, yourself."

Lestrade scoffed at that. "Oh, I'm sure this one is not on your list," he grabbed their shots of vodka and threw back two at place. "We're getting married."

John almost spat out his drink on Lestrade and the bloke behind him. Almost. But the thick liquid found its way to the back to his throat and started burning like a motherfucker.

"What?" said John, startled. Then, he realized that there were better group of words to say to a person who had just informed you of their marriage, but it was too late.

"Yes, he proposed to me. I know it's strange. Hell, it's absurd for what I know, but he did it and for the first time in years I thought I might need to get my ears checked."

John who was keeping back from flinching hard at the vodka burning in the back of his throat, let out a small chuckle which was the only thing he could do other than thinking about what to say.

"So," John coughed, "he got you an actual ring?"

"That's barely odd, my jaw almost dropped when he got down on one knee."

And so John thought, _fuck it_ , and threw back shots of vodka that helped him through this, way easier.

"That's just," said John, with a thoughtful expression which was ironic despite all the alcohol he had in his system, "That's great."

"Is it?" asked Lestrade nervously, "It's _Mycroft_ , and no one knows we're...you know...together."

"Isn't this a way to tell them, though? Not everyone needs to know and pry on your lives, beforehand."

"Yes, yes, that," Lestrade threw back another shot of vodka which John doubted was possible for him to do after a full bottle of beer and three other raw shots, "but it's just this _beforehand_ has been going on only for months, shouldn't it take longer? Doesn't it, usually?"

And that gets John thinking about himself and Sherlock. Sherlock had also proposed to him which nevertheless showed that Holmeses were _capable of proposing to people_ and since he loves Sherlock very much and knew Sherlock felt the same, John actually thought that Greg Lestrade and the British Government's marriage would go well.

"Not really," John responds, honestly, "Mycroft is a wise man, he wouldn't make a decision just because of how he _feels_. There's doubtlessly some logic behind it."

Lestrade nodded.

"And if there's anything you'd like to discuss," continues John, "I'm up for a pint any time," he says, trying to sound as reassuring and convincing as possible.

Lestarde nods again and orders another beer.

 

 


End file.
